What's Left Unsaid

by Emily Bleeker

  “Oh, I see,” the nurse-like woman responded, seeming to buy Hannah’s introduction. “I think he mentioned you. I’m Katie, by the way. Come on in. I will see what I can do for you.”

  She held open the screen door, which screeched ever so slightly, making Hannah imagine an occupied porch swing on a warm summer night with sweaty glasses of iced tea resting on one of the side tables as crickets hummed away in the tall grass surrounding the house.

  “I’ll let Mr. Martin know you are here.” Katie smiled and exited into one of the side rooms. The foyer was just as quaint as the porch, with a curving staircase made of a rich walnut with a white-and-stained-wood banister trailing all the way up on one side, making a sort of balcony at the top of the stairs. Plenty of blushing debutantes had likely stood at that precipice looking down on their shy prom dates, or daughters in wedding dresses awaiting their futures, or grandparents greeting babies in mothers’ arms. It was strange to see inside Monty’s world. It made him more human—harder to hate, but hopefully not harder to stand up to.

  “Right this way,” Katie said, returning almost immediately. Hannah followed her into a large living room area, with a grand fireplace using gas-burning logs and surrounded by stones, wood floors accented with richly colored burgundy carpets, and an off-white upholstered sofa and chair set that looked like it was from a movie. In the corner of the room was a circular table positioned under a picture window overlooking the side yard and a grove of trees that blocked any view of neighbors or the distant highway. Seated in a wheelchair next to the table was a sixty-something woman with blonde hair that was closer to white than yellow. A teacup with an amber liquid sat in front of her, and she was in a tasteful velour bathrobe with a zipper up the front and a steaming pot in the middle of the table. Monty was nowhere to be seen.

  “You really do look like your daddy,” the woman, presumably Mrs. Martin, called out to Hannah as she crossed the room. Her voice was soft and dainty, reminding Hannah of Mamaw’s gliding vowels and measured tone, which made Hannah’s heart hitch. A lovely sensation touched her skin, like a familiar caress.

  “Oh, well . . . thank you,” Hannah said, taken off guard by the mention of her father. She’d been thinking about him a lot lately—how strange it felt to be glad he wasn’t alive to see how shameful she’d become.

  “I take it you knew my father?” For some reason, she didn’t cringe at this like she did when Monty brought him up. Momma pointed to the chair on the other side of the table, and Hannah took it as Katie wandered off into another room, leaving them alone.

  “I sure did. We were in the same graduating class. Even back then we knew he was a math genius. Sure made your mamaw and papaw proud when he started teaching at the Columbia College, even if it did mean him living so far away. Monty put a little piece in the Record about it. I don’t know if you knew that.”

  “No, he never mentioned it,” Hannah said, settling into her seat and laying her phone on the table, finding that she wanted to hear more. It was a strange urge after pushing away any mention of her father since his death, finding that the only memories and grief she could bear were her own. “What was he like back then?” Hannah asked.

  The older woman picked up the silver spoon resting on the edge of the saucer and stirred her tea, the metal making a soothing swooshing sound as it lightly scraped the cup bottom. She put it back in place with a delicate tink and lifted the drink by the curved handle, but as soon as it left the plate her hand started to shake, spilling the liquid out the sides. Hannah reached out instinctively and placed a steadying hand under the cup.

  “Oh, aren’t you a dear,” Mrs. Martin said after taking a sip and replacing the cup with Hannah’s help.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep . . .” Hannah shoved her hands under her thighs, embarrassed that she’d tried to caretake a stranger.

  “Oh, never. I’m still wobbly after my little incident, and you are such a kind young lady to want to help. Monty is lucky to have someone like you around at the office. He’s always said such kind things.”

  It was difficult to hear so many positive comments about herself, especially right now. No wonder Mrs. Martin was willing to let Hannah in—she didn’t know . . . everything. Her ignorance wouldn’t last long, and then the terms of endearment and hospitality would disappear. She cleared her throat and set her face in stone.

  “Speaking of Monty, is he here?” Hannah glanced around for signs of Mrs. Martin’s other half, thinking that she might as well get the confrontation over with. Bonding over tea with “Momma” would only make this harder.

  “Yes, Katie is checking on him. He’s been such a worrywart that I sent him to his room for a nap a bit ago.” She laughed but then winced, leaning back in her chair like she was trying to position herself just right so she could escape the pain.

  Hannah’s next sentence came with a tightness she recognized from watching her father after surgery and Mamaw when Hannah had first come to town.

  “I can come back another time. I feel like I’m intruding.” Everything she did right now felt wrong. If only Hannah could make one thing, one single thing, right, then maybe the dominos would stop crashing around her. But seeing the distress on Mrs. Martin’s face made Hannah regret ever turning down their unpaved driveway without giving advance warning.

  “Don’t be silly. I like having you here. You can give me the good newspaper gossip.” She winked like Mamaw sometimes did when she was telling a joke.

  “I . . . I don’t work there anymore, actually. That’s why I’m here.” Hannah stirred Mrs. Martin’s tea like she’d observed moments earlier, even tapping the spoon when she’d completed the task.

  “Oh my, I had no idea. I’m so sorry, Hannah. I can’t imagine what my husband was thinking letting you go—a real journalist from the Chicago Tribune. What was that man thinking?” she huffed, her cheeks flushing, which made Hannah worry about the state of the elderly woman’s newly stitched-up heart.

  “No, no. It was my fault. I got carried away with a story and went too far to get information and . . .” Without asking, Hannah took the handle of the teacup and asked Mrs. Martin silently with one raised eyebrow if she’d like help again to take a sip, hoping it would aid in calming her.

  “What’s it about? This story you’re writing.”

  There was an innocent excitement in Mrs. Martin’s pale face that made Hannah want to spill the story she’d kept from the woman’s husband for so long. If Mrs. Martin saw value in the story, maybe she could help convince Monty. It wasn’t the Tribune, but she’d gladly trade her chance to get back into the Tribune’s good graces for Monty’s cooperation in Guy’s case. Plus, she didn’t know what it was about Mrs. Montgomery Martin, but Hannah felt sure that she’d like Evelyn almost as much as Hannah had the first time she read her words.

  “All right, I’ll tell you. It all started when I found this rejected article in the basement of the Record.” Hannah wrestled a stack of files from her messenger bag and set them on the table, opening to the first typewritten page with a red R circled in the corner. “It started with the words My name is Evelyn . . .”

  Hannah summarized the story for an attentive Mrs. Martin, reading a few clips from the original articles, ending with the cliff-hanger she was still dangling from:

  The next time I write, I will complete my tale and answer the question that everyone had on their tongues seven years ago: Who shot Evelyn? The answer surprises even me to this day.

  After those last words hung in the air between them, Mrs. Martin, hand over her heart and slightly breathless, asked, “Well, who did it?”

  Hannah put the final page down and licked her lips, hesitant to tell the whole truth about her lack of answers.

  “I don’t know yet,” she said, fully aware of the sealed envelope on her desk at home that Pete had delivered. It possibly held the end to Evelyn’s story, but since she’d been completely wrapped up in her guilt over what she’d done to obtain those answers, Hannah hadn�
��t opened the packet. “That’s the information I was looking for when . . . when I messed up so badly.”

  Emotion clamped down on Hannah’s throat, and the tears that came more often poured into her eyes quickly, as if weepy were her body’s new natural state. The drive to find a conclusion to Evelyn’s story had been muted by the aftermath of her tunnel vision and the real-life drama she’d authored. She tried to pin her current state on a couple of things: Alex, her obsession with getting her job back, and her overinvestment in Evelyn. But truly, for all this time, her focus had only ever been on one wholly self-serving thing: escaping her pain.

  “It can’t be as tragic as all that,” Mrs. Martin said, reaching toward Hannah like she’d comfort her if her body would let her, no way to know all the events that informed Hannah’s emotions.

  Hannah blinked, and a few tears fell like raindrops onto her hands as she stared at them.

  “I’m sure Mr. Martin will understand when he hears the whole story, dear. Please don’t cry.” She rummaged through the pocket of her robe and was offering a ball of tissues, likely unused but worse for wear, when Monty’s familiar drawl filled the room, bouncing off the tall ceilings and polished floors.

  “Momma, what are you doing up and out of bed?” Montgomery Martin crossed the room, wearing a pair of baggy lounge pants and a long sweater over what looked like a plain white undershirt. It was the most casual thing Hannah had ever seen her former boss wearing, and it felt a bit like seeing him naked. Katie followed swiftly behind Monty, also beelining for Mrs. Martin’s resting spot.

  “I was just keeping Hannah here company for a few minutes.” She glanced back at Hannah, beaming like she expected this to be a good surprise rather than one that would likely piss her husband off.

  When Monty finally reached his wife, he was out of breath and damp with perspiration, but Mrs. Martin didn’t seem to mind. She patted his face affectionately as he placed a gentle kiss on her cheek and then the top of her head. He loved his wife, that had always been clear, but seeing their tenderness touched Hannah’s already vulnerable heart. No. She had to resist any softening of her resolve—Monty might be a good husband, but that didn’t mean he got a pass for the other asshole parts of his personality, which he promptly put on full display.

  “Miss Williamson,” he said coolly, resuming his full height, all warmth vacant from his demeanor.

  “Hey,” was Hannah’s weak reply, her anxiety levels shooting through the roof, tensing her shoulders and raising her heart rate. He glowered down at her as his wife tried to play peacemaker the best way she knew how.

  “Hannah has been telling me all about a very interestin’ story she’s been working on.” She paused to regroup, very clearly worn down by her efforts at entertaining. “It’s about a girl from our town from a long time ago. She was shot in her bedroom, and there are all these suspects and—”

  “Katie,” Monty spoke over his wife, clutching her shoulder lightly. She immediately stopped talking and watched his face, quietly confused. “Would you make sure Mrs. Martin gets her afternoon snack? I have a business matter I need to tend to.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, unlocking the wheelchair brake with her foot.

  “I’ll join you in a minute, dear,” Monty said, releasing her shoulder, keeping his eyes on Hannah, who was starting to squirm in her seat, not only as a result of her impending confrontation with a man who had fired her but also due to Mrs. Martin’s state of turmoil. With a nearly imperceptible shift, Momma accepted his directive and made apologetic eye contact with Hannah, who mouthed the words “It’s okay” before the older woman was helped out of the room.

  Monty turned all his focus to Hannah, his skin turning a bright red even in the cool house.

  “You have gone too far,” he snarled, making Hannah gasp. He was angry, not “disappointed in you” angry or “I don’t understand your quirks” angry—this was pure fury, far beyond what she’d thought him capable of displaying. She recoiled, surprised. No, shocked.

  “I’m sorry, but you left me no choice. I called you and emailed you and sent you texts—everything I could think of. This is important, Monty”—she corrected herself—“Mr. Martin. The life of an educator and father and incredibly good man is on the line.” She set her shoulders and started at the beginning of the speech she’d prepared for her visit to Mr. Grant’s office. “This is all my fault. I was working on that story, and I’d reached a dead end and—”

  “Get out,” he spit, making Hannah blink and recoil.

  “Please, you have to listen. Guy had nothing to do with this. He was just trying to help me. If you’d just listen, you’d understand. Please,” she begged, standing up, hands involuntarily clutching in front of her.

  “I don’t want to hear it. I told you to drop that story the first time Ms. Dawson called me, and you persisted in this foolhardy pursuit.”

  The first time? Alarm bells rang in Hannah’s head.

  “You mean she called you again?” Hannah asked, trying to focus on Guy but also wondering what the hell difference this story made to Shelby Dawson.

  “Yes, after her nephew made a fool of himself in some hotel lobby doing favors for you and this obsession. I killed the story, Miss Williamson. You should’ve let it die.” He slashed at the air.

  “Wait, is Pete okay?” Hannah asked, sidestepping the Evelyn topic for a moment. Did someone post a video after all? Did she need to add Pete to her list of victims? He’d called her the day after Thanksgiving. She didn’t pick up, but did find the brain space to respond to his concerned message with a text briefly explaining about Mamaw’s accident. He’d sent his best wishes, but not much else, which she’d taken to mean that he wasn’t interested in remaining close after she kindly but firmly rejected his advances. But maybe his distance meant something else.

  Monty nodded his head.

  “Yes, Ms. Dawson and her team took care of the situation.”

  Hannah, getting distracted from her intended purpose of prostration and reconciliation, clenched her fist at the idea of this wealthy family using their influence to secure their power and—what? What else were they trying to preserve?

  “Shelby is good at throwing money around, isn’t she? Just like she’s thrown money at you and your paper for who knows how long. Why are you so afraid of Shelby Dawson, Monty? What does she have on you?”

  She stepped closer, aware of his slight body odor and the trail of sweat glistening on his neck. There was more to this situation than a few articles in the basement of a small-town newspaper, but what was it? And why did everyone want it hidden so badly? And why did those articles even exist if they could bring down this house of cards that someone—Monty or Shelby or some other mysterious figure—had been building for generations?

  “I have no idea what you are talking about,” he said, but Monty was a bad liar, and the fuzzy picture of why he was going after Guy was starting to come into focus.

  “Yes, you do. Shelby Dawson has something on you or the paper or . . .” She glanced at the pages on the table and then back at Monty. “Oh my God, it’s not about something you’ve done. You’re blackmailing her, aren’t you?”

  “You’ve lost your mind,” Monty said, huffing like he was laughing, but she didn’t let up.

  “The money from the Dawsons, your reaction to this story, Shelby Dawson’s involvement in . . . everything. Why are you all so afraid of Evelyn Kensley?”

  “I’m not afraid of anyone.”

  “No, but the Dawson family is. And you know the paper can’t survive without their support. They ‘donated’ to the Record so your father would keep some scandal under wraps, and your father held on to the evidence, you know, just in case.”

  “You are letting your imagination get the better of you, Miss Williamson. I refuse to let you hustle me and the paper like you did with Peter or . . . or . . .” He stuttered, and the white crust at the corners of his mouth started to foam with built-up spit. “Or turn me into a criminal like you did Gu
y Franklin.”

  She bristled at his pointed insult, and the fury that was once on Monty’s face flamed inside Hannah this time. She’d done a lot of things wrong, and it was true that she’d caused irreparable damages in far too many lives, including her own, but this was too much. This was a cover-up, and Guy was the most recent scapegoat.

  “Are you shitting me, Monty?” she asked, rushing toward him, tapping a finger on his pliant chest. “The shady shit going on at your newspaper isn’t his fault. Shelby Dawson pulled a few strings and slung a little cash to get Pete’s indiscretions to disappear, but Guy doesn’t have any of that, and you’ve decided to let him burn.”

  “No, little missy, you don’t get off that easily.” He didn’t try to remove her accusatory finger; instead he towered over her, his eyes full of condemnation. “You use people, and when you are done with them, you blame everyone else for the rubble you left behind. Do I feel for Mr. Franklin? Yes, in a way, I do. Does it excuse his criminal activity or yours, for that matter? No. Now, if you’d kindly get out of my house before I have to call the police.”

  She glared at him, his insult slashing at the frayed remnants of her self-worth. She wasn’t the only one reeling from the aftereffects of a raw, exposed nerve. If he wanted to protect his career, his family’s good name, his home and everyone inside it, apparently he had to keep Hannah silent and minimized.

  “I will find out what you’re hiding.” She retreated from her position and collected her jacket and bag, reaching for the files she’d been showing to Mrs. Martin.

  “Leave those,” he said with a cool finality.

  “I have other copies,” she shot back.

  “Use them and I will sue.”

  “I dare you to.” Hannah set her jaw and glared.

  He put his hand over the stack, claiming them. “Publish these or any of your theories, Miss Williamson, and I will not lift one finger to help your Mr. Franklin.”